Crucio
by jeweled inferno
Summary: He stumbled through the door to see that the candle was lit and she was still sitting on his sofa, working. She'd waited... 'No, of course she hadn't waited. Not for YOU. No one would wait for YOU.'  The Cruciatus Curse explained. HG/SS


**Disclaimer: **If I owned _Harry Potter_, do you really think I'd be writing this? Well, just in case there are some critical-thinking-challenged among you, **I don't.**

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**Background:** A year after Harry Potter graduated Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and entered the Auror Corps—along with Ronald Weasley—Minerva McGonagall convinced Hermione Granger to enter into an Apprenticeship with none other than Severus Snape, since he was getting busy with his spying and the Order needed a Potions master of some kind. Voldemort is still very much alive and at large, causing havoc in the wizarding—and muggle—world.

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Hermione threw down the quill and rubbed her eyes tiredly, glancing over at the two clocks on the wall. One displayed the time—10:57 PM—and the other had three hands: Albus Dumbledore (which was black and still pointed to 'Mortal Danger'), Hermione Granger (which pointed to 'Hogwarts'), and Severus Snape (which wavered between 'Mortal Danger' and 'Work'). As she watched, however, the latter's hand twirled abruptly through 'Traveling' to reach 'Hogwarts'.

She frowned. Her taciturn professor never got out of a meeting that early. Ah, well—he would be in soon to check the way she had changed the directions for the making of Veritaserum (very fascinating, really, _she_ thought—she'd managed to cut down the brewing time from a full moon cycle to about four days; not to mention her latest series of calculations, which hinted that she might be able to create a newer version of the truth-telling potion that had no antidote).

Severus Snape bent over and leaned against the wall for support, trying to catch his breath without drawing the unwanted attention of Mrs. Norris. Voldemort had not been pleased about the latest news—Harry Potter's impending marriage to Ginny Weasley. In fact, he'd been so Not Pleased that he'd held Severus under the Cruciatus Curse for nearly forty-five minutes (in five-minute intervals, with short gaps of about forty-five seconds so the Dark Lord could hurl insults without competing with his screams).

The pain was excruciating, and not entirely physical: The slow terror as Voldemort drew his wand, contemplated it, and slowly raised it was akin to the feeling of heating up pins in a furnace; then the excruciating pain of having said pins inserted into his skin, slicing through muscle, sliding into the tiny spaces between his bones; then they seemed to grow barbs and spikes, the pain spreading out into every bone, every organ, until nothing in his body was pain free. Then, just before the curse ended, the pins were ripped out, along with the accompanying pieces of his body.

As the Dark Lord screamed his displeasure, it felt as though the pins were slowly being reheated, ready for another go.

After the second time, the thoughts began—_What have I done to deserve this? Why?_

_Because you lie, you cheat, you hurt people! _An inner voice, nearly the same as his own (the Dark Lord was skilled at the mind arts, after all), spoke up bitterly. _You called Lily _Mudblood_; you betrayed everyone and joined _him! _ You're a cruel, biased, bastard—you know what the students say about you behind your back! And you know it's true, because…_

On and on, it went, until he thought he would go mad. It was all he could do not to shout back at the voice: "I _am_ doing the right thing! Spying! I'm working for the _Light!_ I've done my penance!"

But he never did, because that would be suicide, and he was a Slytherin through and through—he'd often heard that mangy mutt Black tell his swaggering friend Potter that self-preservation ran in their blood.

The rough wood of the door ran under his hand, interrupting the memories. The wards hummed and pulsed, and, recognizing the man pressed against them, they allowed the door to open quietly. He stumbled inside, not hearing the scratching of the quill—or the subsequent pause in said scratching.

At least, until a soft voice spoke up, "Professor?" He would have jumped about a foot in the air, but his abused muscles protested and he collapsed onto the couch instead. Granger was still here. Of _course_ Granger was still here. Why hadn't he sent her away before? She didn't need to see this…

_That's right; you don't want anyone to see you this pathetic—because you are! A pathetic, lying…_

He groaned as the voice started up again, dropping his face into his hands and closing his eyes, as if the inside of his eyelids could provide some comfort or escape. Unfortunately, they just prompted another outburst from the inner voice: _Trying to hide—again! That's all you do: hide! Everyone else fights, everyone else does something _productive_, but you! You lie to your master, you lie to the Order—you lie to everyone!_

_Not her!_ He protested weakly. _I don't lie to Hermione!_

_Oh, right—your little _crush!It said derisively. _As if she would ever want to be with _you!

_Not like that! _Severus thought frantically. _She is my student—again! I would never even consider such a course of action, even if I _did _have any kind of feel_—

"Professor?" This time the question was accompanied by a soft touch of his shoulder, and he flinched involuntarily. The hand retreated, and he sighed, thinking that perhaps he would be left alone to brave out the aftermath of the curse on his own. Alone, as always—he didn't mind. Did he?

Suddenly, the hand moved forward again, this time accompanied with an entire body as Hermione sat down next to her professor and gave him a tentative hug (oh, Harry and Ron, it's a good thing you aren't here). She'd wanted to before—and more—but not like this. Not while he was in pain.

Severus again recoiled from the touch, and the voice began with a new string of insults, this time based on Lily and his worthlessness. Growing bolder when she wasn't pushed away, Hermione hugged him a little tighter.

Then the weight of it all came bearing down on him. All the abuse, all the curses, all the kicks and beatings and verbal attacks—and who had been there? Dumbledore had stopped by, of course, when he could, usually with a bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky, but now he was gone. Gone at Severus' hand.

For the first time in over ten years, a sob made its way out of his throat, an odd choking noise that was accompanied by a lone tear. Another followed, then another, and another, and he turned suddenly to his student. She barely caught a glimpse of his tear-stained face, and he only a quick flash of an expression somewhere between compassion and surprise before his head was resting on her shoulder, arms around her back. Slowly, gently, Hermione mirrored the gesture and they sat, perched on the edge of the couch, beside a low table covered in potions books and scribbled papers, dim torches flickering, for an indeterminate length of time.

Even after he regained control of himself, Severus left his forehead resting on Hermione's—no, _Miss Granger's_—shoulder. She didn't seem particularly inclined to move, either. Finally, when it seemed that he had to say something, he pulled back.

Hermione hesitated. It was now or never.

Holding him still for a moment with her arms—still around him—she turned her head slightly and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. It was still damp from his tears, and pale from years spent inside brewing potions.

Snape's eyes widened in surprise, and he pulled himself back, turning his face away from hers. It was so open, so impossibly innocent and worried—worried for _him._ The voice (which had been remarkably silent throughout the embrace) piped up, but now it only had a few half-hearted arguments about why such a nice young lady would _ever_ want a cruel, old(er) spy like him.

"Professor?" Hermione asked again, tilting her head sideways in an effort to see his face. He looked down, then glanced over at her. Her eyebrows were drawn together in worry, and he could see the beginnings of one of her 'Go-to-Pomfrey' lectures.

"I apologize, Miss Granger." He cut her off before she could begin. "You may leave now."

He wanted her to stay. But she wouldn't—who would, honestly? This new thought brought another, more brutal outburst from the voice.

The couch didn't move, and he couldn't hear papers being shuffled or books being closed, so Snape spared a glance over to his right. She was still there, but now she was frowning.

"_I_ apologize, sir, but you're not well."

_Well spotted, Granger,_ His subconscious told her sarcastically. _Well spotted._

"I'm not going to leave until you're asleep or someone else comes to stay with you, professor," She informed him, then continued more warmly, "And sir, how many times have I asked you to call me Hermione?"

He made a strangled noise and finally turned back towards her. She met his eyes, and he caught a number of expressions flitting across her face, only a few of which were recognizable: Brief pity, worry, compassion, anger, determination, then some unidentifiable emotion that made his heart clench. Almost without noticing, he lifted his hand out towards her face. Her eyes flickered to it, and she didn't move away, but it stopped and hovered about an inch away from her face.

She looked up at him as loneliness and pain flashed behind his eyes, but they were quickly repressed. The hand made to move away, but instead she reached up gently and took hold of it with both hands. Scooting a few inches closer, so they were pressed against one another, she held it in her lap and gave it a squeeze. Severus looked down at her in near astonishment, and she met his eyes almost shyly.

Then it all made sense—her occasional strange stutters, the frequent blushes when he praised her work—she _fancied_ him.

The voice immediately started up a violent protest, but he was too busy staring into her eyes, searching for something, to notice it. Hermione figured he must have found whatever he was looking for, because after a moment, he leaned down in a swift movement and captured her lips against his. It started gently, as if he was afraid she would push him away in disgust, but instead she leaned forward, interlacing the fingers of one hand with the one of his that still sat in her lap and wrapping the other around his neck.

Finally they broke apart and stared at each other, forehead against forehead, catching their breath. Hermione was tempted to say something along the lines of, 'Took you long enough!', but the uncertain look that lingered in his eyes made her lean forward again to snuggle her head in his shoulder, kissing his cheek on her way past. Her left hand slipped from where it was around his neck and down to nestle between her chest and his. She sat there for a moment, and then Severus lifted his right arm and slowly draped it around her shoulders, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head.

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Severus woke up slowly the next morning to a strangely pain-free, comfortable feeling. He opened his eyes, unusually groggy, to confront Hermione Granger's contented and very much asleep face. They must have fallen asleep on the couch the night before.

Suddenly, she inhaled sharply and her eyes fluttered. Opening her eyes revealed Snape's vaguely amused and worried face. She snuggled her head down into his shoulder and yawned.

"Am I dreaming?"

He snorted.

"Judging by the state of your hair, it would probably be a nightmare." She just smiled into his Death Eater robes, well used to his near-constant snide remarks after eight years, but all the same…

"It's not _that_ bad, is it?" He pressed his lips to the top of her head reassuringly.

"It's perfect." She turned her face back up towards his, still smiling, and they shared their second kiss. Somehow, both of them knew it wouldn't be their last.

**A/N:** So… I know I should probably be writing _Independence Day_… or _Diplomacy_… but the idea with the Cruciatus has been floating around in my head for a while, and this morning the story idea just hit me on my way to school. Was actually originally going to be Hermione/Draco in the Heads' Common Room in fifth year, and involve Dumbledore and McGonagall placing bets, but… I dunno… this is what came out! If you have a burning desire to read the original version of the story, mention it in your **review**. If enough people think that version's better than I'll write it… I am writing to the audience, after all.

Oh, and just in case the 'voice' was a little confusing: It started out as almost Voldemort's thoughts exactly, but in the aftermath it fed off Severus' own doubts and well… things just went downhill from there.


End file.
